2:9 Every Girls' Dream

It is around 7.30 am, I have just strolled into work after a heavy night of alcohol abuse. The office is empty as today is nearly Shabbat, the day of rest. As my work revolves around the western week, my day of rest is placed on hold. I had a wonderful evening last night, and even though I am suffering right now, even though my eyelids are straining to keep open whilst glancing at the illuminating computer screen, and even though I have the feeling of a brick inside my head, I will plod along with the rest of the day until I do get some rest.

A Bilingual Affair

I attended a wedding of an Irish colleague, Mo. He moved to Israel to set up a life with his Israeli girlfriend, after falling in love at first sight in smoky London pub. Last night, they pronounced their commitment to each other in front of an Irish/Israeli crowd. The setting was a candlelit, antique French cavern style restaurant, situated in an alcove of old Jaffa, although it could have been any European pebbled street. The bride and groom spoke in Hebrew and English, so that their declaration of love to one another could be absorbed by all. The guests celebrated drinking raspberry-champagne concoctions and whiskey, eating juicy lamb chops and beef carpacio, and dancing to the tunes of Irish folk music and the drunken tones of Uncle Jack. It was an utterly romantic affair, dripping at the edges of cultural celebrations, intimacy and sincerity. Mo’s wedding was not a typical Israeli affair, which I will deliberate on in a moment.

Dreams May Come True

As with all little girls, as far back as I can remember, I maintained some vision of what would be the perfect wedding (for me, please G-d). The wedding last night was the closest reenactment of this fantasy. What disheartens me more than anything is that this vision could simply remain a fantasy and that the little girl inside me will have her dreams crushed.

Events I have attended in Israel are quite contrasting, actually, antithetical to be exact, to last night’s celebration. The common style of an Israeli wedding is large, incredibly large, actually considerably immense to be exact. The ceremony consists of around five hundred people, spilling from all door ways, gazing at a chupah as if it was a replay of last night's football. The exchanged words are muffled by the sounds of chatter, the noise from men wandering in circles whilst on their mobile phones and women nattering at the site of the bride maids’ frocks. And the finale of the ceremony is only known when the sound of Lachiyam! (salute, ‘to life’) resonantes over the noise. Even though the event begins with a reception of salads, empanadas, rice and meatballs, it also continues with a 4-course food marathon, fish, steak, meat and a buffet dessert. Dancing begins with a slow-dance to the couple’s favourite love song, but by the time the song hits the second verse, the dj flips the tunes to Israeli pop and dance. The evening continues with the young ones raving to the sounds of house, to an audience of sleepy boobers and zeiders gazing in a trance-like state (Yiddish for Grandmas and pas).

Anglo friends in Israel generally comment, after attending such affairs, how much they prefer Israeli weddings, how informal and fun they are, and what party it was! That is all good and well for them, although simply put, ‘typical’ Israeli weddings just aren’t my cup of tea. And fine, they aren’t my cup of tea, but in respect to the direction my life is heading, I cannot envisage much else happening than to have such a serving of tea. To have a wedding in which communication between the bride and the guests is limited; where you communicate your vows in front of a room full mostly of strangers; in which traditions aren’t familiar to everyone else; in which basic niceties aren’t appreciated by anyone but yourself, such as speeches full of complements, blacks ties and black suits, a page boy throwing rose petals, ladies in puffy dresses, waiters with trays of teeny hors d'oeuvres, that plonk in your mouth in one bite, a live musical band playing 'hava nagila' and Sinatra, where there is enough people so that you feel like you are part of a celebration but small enough so you have the chance to see every single smiling face … this is what I may be face missing out on.

I might seem old-fashioned, antiquated or not even that fun, but that has been my vision. My vision may be short-lived, childish, or even pathetic, but coming to Israel, I sacrificed British culture. Although, looking back on last night, I do not necessarily have to give up everything. We will see.